The Fall of Cronus
by Some Mad Person
Summary: Indistinct villains, Greek lore, and the annoyingly undead plague the Angels on their latest case. Chapter III: When The Antelope Plays. In which people get stabbed quite a bit, and Dylan gets some comforting voicemail.
1. Dead Men Walking

  
Disclaimer   
_Charlie's Angels_ and its respective characters © Sony Pictures/Flower Films, 2000-2003.   
  
Author's notes   
The Thin Man is _not_ dead. I whole-heartedly disallow it. Neither is Seamus, because I am an emotional masochist. This story reflects a new writing style that I am experimenting with, as well as some disgruntlement with regards to the ending of _Charlie's Angels:Full Throttle_, which I unabashedly declare as my favourite film of the year.   
  
I swear, it's been a long time since any fandom-based couple has gotten me so CRAZY.   
  
This fanfic attempts to emulate certain aspects of the movie novelisation, hence the little sub-headers here and there. I know that my tardy arrival into this fandom leaves me with little plot matter to expound upon, however, I strive to make this as original as I can. Please feel free to review or submit any form of constructive criticism, that I may improve and present to you readers a better quality of writing.   
Thank you, and I hope you like this. :)   
  
P.S. Happy Birthday, Mistiec!   
  


**CHARLIE'S ANGELS:   
THE FALL OF CRONUS   
By Scarr C.**

  


**Chapter One: Dead Men Walking**

  
**June 3rd, 11:07 P.M.   
Location: A dingy alley, downtown L.A.   
Status: Not quite deceased.**   
  
  
He liked noise, but not discordant ones like these. Someone was driving his nails into the mound of flesh above his eyebrows and pulling with utmost ferocity. It disturbed him, thus, when the visage of a gigantic reptilian creature wrenching the hood off a car with practised ease spilled across the dark of his irises.   
  
He concentrated on a smattering of curses that was intended to drive the above-mentioned, forehead-dismembering entity away, but those blasted sounds were a most distracting thing, and a tiny voice at the back of his mind insisted that sitting through half an hour of fustian opera was definitely a more attractive option as compared to lying flat on his back on a _very_ uncomfortable bed in wet denim, with an orchestra of hammers taking up a liberal portion of his senses.   
  
It actually took him a few minutes to register that the bed was actually gravel, and that his clothes were limp with coagulating blood. Also, the lizard-like beast was nowhere to be found, and he discovered that the throb of blood pressure in his temples was responsible for those dreadful noises.   
  
Similarly, it was at this particular moment where the pain decided to kick in, more viciously than a badly aimed hatchet to the skull. This time, he was positive that the fragment of dirty glass in his eye was _really_ a fragment of dirty glass in his eye. Two fingers, grime-encrusted and stolid thus proceeded to dislodge the source of aggravation in his line of vision, and he was rewarded with the defeated gurgle of a sticky liquid that stemmed from his cornea and rolled off his left cheekbone.   
  
The other eye was vigilant, calculative and sheathed with an unpleasant quantity of dementia that betrayed his physical immobility. The cursed giant lizard had taken to squatting on his ribs, and to make things worse, the damned beast was, well, invisible.   
  
He tried to alleviate the situation by taking in his surroundings, and the first object his good eye rested upon was a huge letter "E" lying to his right - a piece of the dismantled _LOS ANGELES_ sign that served as an ironic backdrop to-   
  
Wait a second. Now, the recollection process was taking effect, and his mouth began to represent a gnarled sort of smile, an emaciated twist of lips that most tend to identify as a grimace.   
  
_Light bulbs._   
  
Yes, there were light bulbs, their contact with a desperate foot quite to blame for his present condition. The ricochet of bullets upon steel networks, the slide of reinforced metal through plunging flesh. And more lucid than the rest, more enraging and enrapturing than all these was the triumphant snare of an American flag lighter, and an inscrutable face that was framed by a colour he could never quite put his finger upon.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 11th, 9:20 P.M.   
Location: New York City   
Status: Lurking**   
  
  
It was a colour akin to the red of an overused lipstick. Or that of a sidewalk leaf, pure October in its swan-song glory. Sweet and tangling, pleasant to an aquiline nose and perfect as a metaphorical gash on his palm.   
  
The weather was poor, and he feared for the lock of hair that was currently making its way along the contours of his acerbic features. With an almost child-like affection, he tucked the auburn strands into a breast pocket and stalked along the undisturbed avenue with the bearing of a shadow.   
  
Angels could wait, assignments could not.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 8:03 A.M.   
Location: Natalie and Pete's Beachfront Condo   
Status: Mortal peril**   
  
Dylan Sanders was out of ammunition, medical supplies and patience. The guerrilla resistance was bearing down ruthlessly, and even as she fumbled with her dagger she felt a bullet graze the back of her knee.   
  
Natalie Cook was in an equally uncompromising position; to be more specific, Natalie was dead.   
  
Yes, she was dead.   
  
"_NO_!" The sudden revelation of her partner's fate sliced into her consciousness like raw acid as her mouth formed a perfect oval, her cry of anguish silenced by a thrust to her abdomen.   
  
Caught by horrifying surprise, her legs promptly crumbled.   
  
_Stand up. STAND UP! Don't you dare close your eyes- _   
  
But the venom from the poison-laced knife had amalgamated with the blood in her circulatory system, and the thud of her cheek against the dirt-beaten track signalled the termination of her last life.   
  
"GOD DAMN IT!" Dylan hurled the Play Station controller viciously at the television screen, where it hit the CRP panel with an excruciating crash.   
  
Alex raised an immaculately shaped eyebrow. "I don't know whether to be pleased or not, honestly. For once it isn't my muffins you're throwing."   
  
Natalie, very much alive and in the pink of health, observed Dylan's tantrum bemusedly from the couch, her own controller still intact, just as Pete ambled into the living room and witnessed the fate of his beloved game console system.   
  
"Nat…? Dylan? Didn't you guys enjoy the latest version of _Metal Slug_?" He shifted the pieces of broken plastic on the floor with a mournful toe, his voice faltering.   
  
Dylan paused in her vociferous outburst and thrust him a contrite smile. "I'm _so_ sorry, Pete. I think I might have enjoyed it a little _too_ much."   
  
Despite of himself, Pete broke into a nervous laugh, which developed into a hearty chuckle as the hilarity of the situation washed over him.   
  
"One thing's fer sure, though – no more video games for you, Dylan!" A familiar voice rang from the patio, and three heads promptly whipped around, broad grins emerging on each of their radiant faces.   
  
"_BOSLEY_!"   
  
"Hey, what's up Angels?" Bosley flashed his three favourite ladies in the world an equally warm smile and snapped off his sunglasses before tripping unceremoniously over a small, capering object on the floor.   
  
Pete looked scandalised. Bosley motioned weakly from his twisted position on the rug. "An' you too, Spike." He grunted with as much dignity as one could muster lying on his stomach with his limbs sprawled wildly in every direction possible. The overjoyed puppy responded with a victorious bark and hurried to the sanctuary of Natalie's arms.   
  
"Aw, Bosley, that's _so_ cute!" Natalie gushed, apparently not seeming to mind the fact that Spike was licking a hole in her face.   
  
"I swear, girl, that dog of yours _hates_ me." Bosley pouted. Naturally, the other Angels saw fit to pacify him, and before he could react, his lap was bequeathed the weight of a set of legs belonging to Dylan, while Alex's manicured hands grazed his arm in an assuaging fashion, her other hand coaxing into his mouth a slice of brownie cake that tasted distinctly like industrial rubber. Not that he was complaining, of course, but there was another task to effectuate.   
  
"You know, much as I'd love to hang around and chill with y'all, we have to get our asses back at the headquarters." He managed to disentangle his hand from Dylan's waist and deposit a mouthful of chewed brownie into his palm as surreptitiously as he could.   
  
Pete gave a resigned shrug. "Charlie?" He knew the question was rhetorical before it was even voiced.   
  
"That's right, Pete. Sorry the girls can't stay for breakfast, but there's a little briefing they have to attend."   
  
Natalie shot the love of her life an apologetic look, but his pleasant nature had banished any sense of disappointment as he waved her on to the garage. Gratefully, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips as Dylan and Alex rose unquestioningly from their seat and followed Bosley out of the front door.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 9:00 A.M.   
Location: The Charles Townsend Agency   
Status: Pre-mission**   
  
  
The speaker box crackled to life just as the oak doors to the office swung open, revealing three confident, attractive women and an African-American man with enthusiastic beams on their faces.   
  
"Good morning, Angels." A deep, personable voice resonated around the room as they assembled on the sofa, Dylan's legs propped candidly upon the coffee table before them.   
  
"Good morning, Charlie!" Four voices chimed in response, and Charlie wasted no time in expounding the details of their next operation. Bosley took his cue to press the button on the desk-remote, and the portrait to their right morphed into an enormous plasma screen, where they came face to face with a bespectacled male in an ill-fitted tweed suit.   
  
"Angels, this is Desmond Fending, renown archaeologist and cartographer." Fending offered a timorous smile in acknowledgment. His blue eyes were watery and blanched, and his moustache quivered visibly, which was unnervingly reminiscent of -   
  
"A rat." Alex muttered into Natalie's ear. "I smell a rat."   
  
"You know the deal about not trusting a man with a moustache." Dylan affirmed. Natalie suppressed a giggle.   
  
"As you may have heard from recent news reports, Mr. Fending has stumbled upon a trove of ancient burial jewels from the elusive catacombs of Alexandria. Upon amassing a few of the treasures, he has decided to auction a percentage of his share for the benefit of several charity organisations, while donating the remainder to the Garrington Historical Museum." Charlie continued. "He is throwing an exclusive showing of the jewels at his house tonight, and this is where you Angels come in."   
  
"Ah, uh, yess." Fending gave an uncoordinated nod. "You see, Angels, I'm afraid that something…nasty might happen tonight. You see, two years ago, I had a fellow researcher with whom I explored the ancient regions of Egypt. His name is Thomas Maulkin, and –"   
  
"_Had_?" Natalie interrupted.   
  
"Yes. He is no longer a partner, nor a friend, much to my regret. Thomas and I had conflicting opinions when it came to the fate of the jewels. He had strong intentions to divide the newfound wealth between the both of us, and I'm afraid that my insistence on donating a majority of it to public causes more than affronted him. I suppose he thought I was trying to harbour most of the jewels secretly to myself, and as a result he left the partnership."   
  
The screen shifted a frame to the right, and the still image of a grey-haired, floridly attired man appeared next to Fending's box. His eyes were on the verge of being engulfed by dark pouches, and his cheeks possessed a flaccid, weathered quality to them. _Thomas Maulkin_, Dylan voiced inwardly while consulting her folder.   
  
"I'm pretty sure that Thomas isn't the violent type, but from the years I've known him, he's prone to rash actions and has a flair for the dramatic. If his aim is to publicise his discontent with me, then I can think of no better time for him to strike other than tonight's party. There will be representatives from the news front as well as distinguished guests attending, and I fear for the safety of my visitors, as well as my own."   
  
Bosley shut his file a little too cheerfully for Fending's preference. "Don't you worry a thing about it, Sir. I know these girls, an' I can tell you that they're pretty damn good at what they do."   
  
"Yeah," Natalie chimed. "I'm sure whatever Maulkin has up his sleeve cannot possibly be much of a threat. Judging from his profile, that is. Of course, we're not one to underestimate the enemy, but this event should pass without a hitch."   
  
Fending failed to look mollified by this, and a curt nod was all he could muster before his eyes shifted austerely to an object behind him, and then his screen went blank.   
  
"Well, goodbye and have a nice day." Dylan shot back, a little more than piqued by his erratic behaviour, but Charlie was swift to conciliate her.   
  
"Now, Dylan, you mustn't blame him. Mr. Fending has good reason to be anxious. One of his top bidders for a rare Anubis emerald had drowned unexpectedly in his own bath two days ago. According to the coroner's report, the man had suffered a stroke while soaking in the bathtub, although Fending himself believes that this was a case of foul play."   
  
"Actually, I'm not even sure if we can trust this guy. Fending, I mean." Dylan blurted out. "You know, it's not the first time our client has turned against us. Outstanding examples would include Knox." – She felt her innards twist with angry disgust- "And Raymond Carter."   
  
"I second that." Alex declared, looking to Natalie for support.   
  
"Well, I don't know," The blond shrugged helplessly. "He looks a little pitiful to me. If there's anything significantly fishy behind it, I'll opt for the theory of blackmail."   
  
"Primary suspect or desperate client, there's only one place to find out." Charlie concluded. The Angels exchanged meaningful winks and turned to face Bosley simultaneously.   
  
"Say, Bos…B." Natalie slipped her arm around his own, her bedazzling smile a promise to fun-filled adventure. "What do you say to a little chaperone fun tonight?"   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 7:02 P.M.   
Location: San Pedro Docks   
Status: Short of a few bolts.   
Mission: Revenge is a dish best served cold.**   
  
  
They say the last place you'd look is usually where it's at, and Seamus O'Grady took that piece of advice to staunch degrees. If he weren't such a soulless brute, he mused, he would have felt a sense of nostalgia promenading the salt-stained decks abroad _The Merkin_, five weeks after the ship was abandoned since the previous showdown between his men and those three girls.   
  
As a matter of fact, he wasn't grousing as much over his ravaged eye over the past few days. It served to affix a pirate-like flamboyance to his brashness, and he would not have liked to admit it, but Seamus could prove to be a narcissistic man.   
  
At this very moment, however, he was not given to thinking about such frivolities. There was a guarded ire within him, a gnawing furore that consumed every bone and vessel in his body with unbridled abhorrence. Only God would judge him, he swore. Not some brat-pack bunch of girls who tired too hard to fit into pants that were obviously not made for them. And definitely not some ex-girlfriend who had committed the ultimate betrayal against him eight years ago.   
  
"I'll make you sorry, Helen," His voice was akin to a singsong, powerful jaws flexing with manic vengeance. "I'm going to make you realise that all you are, and all you'll ever be is Helen Zaas, the stupid little twit who made the mistake of crossing my path. And you'll be sorry, oh you will…"   
  
His henchmen uttered nary a sound as their leader crowed deliriously to himself, the weather a stark emblazonment of red; a sailor's warning sky.   
  
"…And first, Helen, we're going to start off where you thought we ended."   
_______________   
_To be continued_


	2. Paper Faces On Parade

  
  


**CHARLIE'S ANGELS:   
THE FALL OF CRONUS   
By Scarr C.**

  


**Chapter Two: Paper Faces on Parade**

  
**July 12th, 8:00 P.M.   
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette entrance   
Status: Ostentatious   
Wardrobe: Dressed to kill (In both aspects)**   
  
  
"Well, _damn_."   
  
He looked bloody good.   
  
"Hell yeah."   
  
One could hardly blame his mild schizophrenia on vanity. Especially not when he was decked in that marvellous three-piece suit -which was tailored to exquisite disposition- and matching Gucci cufflinks. It also served him well that two very luscious, very comely accessories on either arm were making up for the lack of an overpriced watch.   
  
The one on his right was carved in the form of temptation, a heavenly tumble of scarlet over porcelain flesh with lips too perfect to mark. The other implored for all hearts to be still in her ivory splendour, her stature rivalled only by her dazzling smile.   
  
Bosley practiced his bumptious air with little improvement, and Natalie rendered his elbow a kindly squeeze.   
  
"Bos. _Relax_."   
  
He held out his invitation card and the doorman bowed them through the main entrance, where Satie's _Gymnopèdies_ swarmed into the hallways. And then they were one with the prolific crowd – high strung, coquette, important.   
  
Dylan felt an approaching smile.   
  
"Keep out a good eye."   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 8:07 P.M.   
Location: _The Merkin_   
Status: Derailed   
Mission: To keep out of point blank range**   
  
  
He always had bad taste in boots, although he did not know it. And now, what could possibly qualify as the ugliest pair of manufactured leather was pacing the mock-gangplank of the ship. Pacing was, however, an understated way of describing the mounting tantrums of Seamus O'Grady.   
  
His footsteps came to a grinding halt and swivelled. Lower lips quirked mischievously, a shot echoed, and the man to his right instantly pitched over, falling into a lifeless heap on the floor.   
  
Seamus, on the contrary, appeared to be paying more attention to the smoke issuing forth his double-barrelled gun. This meant that he was in a beastly mood, in a crazy sort of way. It also meant that not very good tidings were on their way to the rest of his men.   
  
"Right, now. You boys had better know what to do."   
  
The survivors - all seven of them, nodded stiffly.   
  
"I don't wanna see any fuck ups."   
  
A low murmur denoted their acknowledgement.   
  
"For _your_ own bloody good."   
  
Another nod.   
  
He strutted away, a slight limp in his gait. It was only until he had relaxed his hold on the gun when he noticed that he had cut into his own palm with a set of crudely trimmed fingernails.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 8:10 P.M.   
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette.   
Mission : Constant vigilance**   
  
  
Bosley flicked at his molar mic with an irate tongue, and static rippled through all four micro-receivers.   
  
He grimaced apologetically at the two ladies by his side. "Cocktail. Stuck."   
  
Natalie fetched him a toothpick, just as a weedy man with a terribly distracting (in Dylan's opinion) moustache sauntered up to them, looking older and more haggard than when they had last seen him on a huge televised screen.   
  
"Mr Fending." Bosley sucked in his cheeks and made to shake his hand. Fending displayed no intention of accepting his gesture.   
  
"Very good. I see only two of them, though."   
  
"Oh, Alex is here." Natalie affirmed. "You'll see her around." She exchanged a knowing glance with Dylan, who returned a wane smile.   
  
"Yeah, I always thought she looked the best in glasses."   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 8:10 P.M.   
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette, 2nd level artefact gallery.   
Wardrobe: Strictly scholarly**   
  
  
"The tombs of pharaohs have two integral parts, the burial chamber and the burial temple. In the chamber lies the sarcophagus, which contains the mummified body of the king, and it is usually opulently furnished with gold and jewels."   
  
The curator paced around her audience with a supercilious flair, stopping only to point at the jewel-encrusted tomb to her right.   
  
"A casual examination of the coffin's surface reveals a wealth of detail. On the lid is an area of breakage where sculpted hands may have once been attached. Other details are modelled perhaps to suggest the appearance of inlaid jewels."   
  
The last word seemed to catch the rapt attention of the crowd gathered before her at every mention. She proceeded to give a historical background on the exhibits, her eyes guarded and alert. Her molar mic was temporarily disabled so as to spare her colleagues from a detailed lesson on ancient catacombs, but her earpiece was kept intact.   
  
Alex Munday pinched the sides of her horn-rimmed spectacles and permitted herself a soft smile.   
  
_So far, so good._   
  
"And over here, we have valuables from the Hellenistic Greek and Roman imperial eras. Back in the first century, one's standing in society was reflected in the type of vessels from which one dined, hence the Romans' exquisite taste for luxury dining. Displayed here is a Millefiori Bowl, also known as-"   
  
"-A thousand flowers bowl."   
  
The voice that had interrupted Alex belonged to a woman standing on her left, who was dressed in a stark pantsuit and no-nonsense court shoes.   
  
She nodded warmly at the Asian girl before walking up to the artefact and continuing, "It was first used in the Renaissance to refer to Venetian glass of a similar manufacture, although it's now widely referred to as mosaic glass."   
  
Alex remained silent, clearly impressed.   
  
The woman turned towards her and proffered a hand.   
  
"Delilah Suezman. I'm a close acquaintance of Fending's."   
  
Her handshake was firm and authoritative, Alex noted as she returned the greeting. "Lisa Gan, artefacts expert and curator at the Garrington Historical Museum."   
  
"In that case, will you be leading the auction, Miss Gan?" Delilah asked.   
  
"I'm afraid not - that will be under the charge of Mr Winston." Alex replied. "Are you a fellow archaeologist, Miss Suezman?"   
  
"Oh no," Delilah chuckled. "I run a company that has absolutely nothing to do with this area of specialisation. Consider this a long-time interest of mine."   
  
"You'll be participating in the auction, then?"   
  
"Yes, I will." A flash of sadness passed through the older woman's eyes at this particular remark, but it had vanquished so facilely that Alex was barely sure if it even occurred.   
  
"I'm bidding in the place of an old friend, although I may pick up a trinket or two for my personal collection, " She added. "I've always been _very_ fond of ancient Greek culture."   
  
Alex felt an inexplicable urge to help the woman before her in any way, some way. "I could place a reservation on your items, if you like."   
  
Delilah accepted her offer gratefully. "Yes…that would be wonderful, thank you. You see, my friend has had his eye on that lovely emerald ring-" She gestured to an exhibit behind Alex, "But since it's terribly rare and thus highly coveted for by other bidders, it would please me greatly to know that I have a primary claim over it."   
  
Charlie's words clicked jarringly at the back of Alex's mind even before she pivoted round to face the brilliant, glittering jewel.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 8:40 P.M.   
Location: Desmond Fending's maisonette, the dining hall.   
Status: Big-wig watching**   
  
Dylan sipped insouciantly at her weak champagne and eyed the shifting assembly of tuxedos and gowns before her.   
  
"Bos, you did your research. The 411, please." She said softly.   
  
Bosley was quick to comply, steering both her and Natalie by the waist through a haze of fraudulent laughter and expensive cigar smoke.   
  
"Right, girls. Two o'clock, Ethan Lentford. Camera-shy grandson of the old miser behind Lentford Corporation. He's here to get a hold of some rare jewellery as a present for his girlfriend – she's the one in peach next to him."   
  
Following which, he motioned to a handsome man in his late-forties, his right hand guiding a martini down his throat, the other arm slung around the waist of a flamboyantly dressed brunette. She was fingering the pearls on her necklace and looking immeasurably bored.   
  
"Richard Green, managing director of Pentex Industries. No personal connection with Fending, this one. Most probably he's hangin' around for the media to capitalise on his charitable efforts. Plans to bid heavily on a bunch o' stuff he's not even interested in, the usual works. I'd say, the reporters _are_ a plenty."   
  
Natalie peered towards where Bosley had pointed out, cocking her head at Dylan. "Don't you just _love_ the more glamorous parts of this job?"   
  
"It's certainly too early to speak." Dylan gave a light chuckle. "Remember our last visit to a social event like this? Corwin's Shinto apartment sure as hell–" Abruptly, a frown overtook her features as all words abandoned themselves on the brink of her lips, and a succession of flashbacks populated her mind's eye with avid ruefulness.   
  
Two elegant fingers, stretched aesthetically to draw a cigarette towards scowling lips; the palliative shift of a neck as smoke is hauled into a set of aching lungs.   
  
-Eyes of a most opalescent blue, harsh tones and preying lights – a bristle of untamed rage, the unsheathing of a sword as thin and pronounced as its owner himself –   
  
Dylan shook her head fervidly, surprising herself with details of a photographic memory she never knew she possessed until now.   
  
It then came to her notice that Natalie was looking at her with a strange, hooded expression in her eyes.   
  
"…Dylan?"   
  
"I'm fine," came her unintentionally curt reply, but Natalie bobbed her head gently with nary a word. Little had been discussed between Dylan and the other Angels with regards to the showdown against Madison Lee and the O'Grady bunch, and Natalie assumed that it was mainly on Dylan's part to get the ball rolling and tighten certain loose ends. An unvoiced mystery had lingered in the office on the day after that mission, but no one had seemed particularly enthused to expound on any related theories.   
  
_No bodies were recovered in the alley._   
  
Granted, there was a significant amount of red liquid matter splattered over everything in sight. There were stains on the walls, the gravel, the metal grilles that lined the constricting drains.   
  
Before she could dwell upon the series of events which occurred on that fateful night, however, a striking woman in her early thirties stepped into view.   
  
"Delilah Suezman, philanthropist and chairperson of Suez Enterprises, third largest biotechnological company in the country." Bosely had scarcely completed his run-down before their object of attention loomed before them, a disarming smile in tow.   
  
Bosely slipped back into a lofty demeanour, every inch the corporate aristocrat. "Henry Usher, please to meet you."   
  
"Delilah Suezman, I'm a close friend of Fending's. I trust you're enjoying yourselves?"   
  
Bosley made a proficient effort to stop himself from raising an eyebrow. Fending never mentioned anything about associates or peers, let alone close friends. But that was probably a slight on his behalf.   
  
Small talk ensued, and Delilah proved to be an amiable conversationalist. Natalie felt herself relax marginally as she and Dylan withdrew to a corner of the room and proceeded to take their dialogue onto a more personal level.   
  
"So you're an orphan too, if you don't mind me asking?"   
  
Dylan tilted her shoulders into a modest shrug. "Well, I suppose I qualify. My mother passed away when I was a kid, and my dad's officially AWOL. I did fine though, had plenty of support from my friends." She threw Natalie and Bosley a meaningful look. "Wasn't it hard for you?"   
  
Delilah's eyes were the colour of burnt sienna, her irises soft-edged but gilded with a sense of one who was jaded and worldly. Her thin lashes were baited in the dim lighting, forming wreaths of darkness around both eyes. "It wasn't the most difficult time I had, actually. I…I was taken into a catholic orphanage at the age of nine."   
  
Dylan pursed her lips, contemplating. "Wasn't it strict then, living in an orphanage like that?"   
  
"Oh, not at all," Delilah said, a hesitant smile spreading across her face. "Well, perhaps it was, a little, but you knew that you were always cared for in the Lady of Perpetual Virginity Church."   
  
For the second time that night, Dylan felt like a block of ice in her stomach had melted all too quickly and filled her insides with smouldering cold. It was an unpleasant sensation, and she berated herself inwardly for succumbing to it.   
  
"I- I have a friend at that Church." She found her throat operating beyond her control. Natalie's head turned sharply to face her.   
  
"You do?" Delilah gave a small bark of laughter. "What a coincidence! And who might that be?"   
  
Dylan was now sorely tempted to kick herself. Hard. For no plausible reason at all, she had just blurted out the most ludicrous enquiry in front of her colleagues and it was far too late to switch to a different topic.   
  
"Uh," She couldn't possibly answer with _"Oh, this creepy thin guy with an unsound fetish for hair"_ now, could she?   
  
"Anthony. His name is Anthony." A voice rang out so flatly that it startled even her, and much to her chagrin, she identified it as her own. "He was named after St. Anthony of Padua, healer of the mute."   
  
It was at this very moment that a surge of embarrassment rose within her, and Dylan was beginning to find it increasingly hard to maintain any eye contact with Natalie.   
  
She returned her attention to Delilah, and for a transient, instantaneous moment, what seemed like a flicker of cognisance swept across her mature features, but they were no sooner replaced with bewilderment, and Dylan's heart sank.   
  
"_Anthony_?" A furrow of eyebrows lined her puzzled expression. "I don't believe I've heard of him, unfortunately. I must have left the orphanage before he was admitted."   
  
"Oh."   
  
"Was he…a close friend?"   
  
"Well." Dylan's tongue was sticking wildly to the back of her throat like cotton. "Not really."   
  
Delilah smiled again, her arm shifting awkwardly as if she had wanted give the younger girl's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Just then, her eyes caught upon something to her left, and it seemed to distract her.   
  
"Mr Usher, I'm afraid that…there's something else that calls for my immediate attention. It's been pleasant talking to you."   
  
Dylan did not reply, unable to mask the look of disappointment on her face. Bosley dipped his head politely.   
  
"If you would excuse me, then." She returned a nod. "I'll promise to look you up if I remember anything about a thin white boy, though."   
  
And with that, she disappeared into the hoard of guests, the click of her heels amalgamating seamlessly with the portentous music.   
  
It took precisely three seconds for Dylan to recognise two fallacies in Delilah's words. One was a chronological error, plain and indubitable; the other was a deadly slip of tongue.   
  
Alex sounded alarmingly loud in her ear, confirming her suspicions.   
  
"Nobody said anything about the Thin Man's physical description, you know."   
  
It required no more than a decisive nod from Dylan to Natalie for all three Angels to arrive at a consensus, and as Alex descended the stairway into the grand hall, they began to venture towards where Delilah Suezman was last seen to be heading.   
  
The Angels were met with an extremely rude interruption, however, which came in the form of four motorbikes ramming headlong through the French windows of the building.   
  
The sound of exploding glass signalled the advent of pure chaos.   
  
Within moments, the air was thick with petrified screams and the skittle of polished heels on marble as guests and servants alike scuttled behind pieces of furniture and around the colossal pillars that bedecked the area for cover.   
  
Instantly, the Angels sprung into action.   
  
Dylan's crimson skirt was detached and flung to one side, revealing a pair of fitting black pants underneath. Natalie had slipped out of the gauze-like train she was wearing, her gown immediately transformed into a short but spacious dress that posed barely a restriction to vigorous movement. Alex wrenched off her spectacles and joined her partners in the centre of the room, her own long-sleeved shirt and lady's trousers already suitable for packing a mean punch.   
  
The motorbikes were cruising across the first level in a predatory fashion, their engines pugnacious and ear splitting. There were two men on each bike; all of them clad in black uniform-like apparel, their faces effectively hidden with a type of netted covering that was reminiscent of a fencing mask. At least four of them were wielding clubs and pistols, issuing a few random shots into the air.   
  
The guests cowered and shrieked as heaps of debris tumbled from the ceiling and buffeted painfully on unprotected skin, creating billows of grey dust on the carpet.   
  
Without wasting a moment, the Angels tore after the havoc-causing bikers with astounding dexterity. Acting on pure impulse, Dylan grabbed a silver platter from an abandoned table, and shaking the cockles and garnishes off it with a sweep of her arm, flung the makeshift weapon like a discus at a pair to her right.   
  
Her aim was guided with a precision which took out the driver with an ill-sounding clip to the back of his head, knocking him out of balance. His motorcycle skittled out of control and collided with the foot of the staircase, both riders hitting the floor with a thud as they were flung out of their seats.   
  
Before the two men could regain their bearings or even garner a proper footing, however, a pair of boots had landed squarely on their chests, knocking the wind straight out of their stomachs. Alex Munday then proceeded to administer a second blow to their collarbones, her expertly-trained pressure on their nerves rendering both men unconscious with little fuss.   
  
"Way to go, Xena."   
  
Dylan responded with a thumbs-up sign.   
  
Natalie, on the other hand, was barely idle while her comrades delivered their moves onto the band of gatecrashers. As a motorbike speeded towards her, she grabbed the nearest pillar for support and vaulted over the banister of the staircase behind it. Just as her advancing foes drew closer, her legs flew out with unexpected alacrity, swinging clockwise with the momentum of her body and landing harshly upon the chest of the biker in front, fracturing rib and sending him hurtling backwards into his partner.   
  
Both men crashed into a pain-wracked heap onto the floor, just as Natalie released her grip on the pillar and landed deftly next to them.   
  
All three parties were up and poised for a round of fists within a flash, but Natalie was quicker. She dealt the thug on her right with a curt blow to the temple while executing a roundhouse kick to his friend, who impacted with a priceless Ming vase that had until then, miraculously remained intact throughout the little motorbike fiasco.   
  
The man who was struck first recovered with notable swiftness, and he drew a hand inside his jacket.   
  
Natalie performed a well-timed backflip just as it emerged with a revolver and opened fire at her.   
  
Bullets penetrated the impairing air frenziedly but failed to come into contact with flesh, ricocheting off antique lamps instead and embedding themselves into the walls of the room.   
  
"Hey, _YOU_!"   
  
Dylan Sanders was certainly not one to appreciate burly masked men taking a couple of wild shots at her friend, and the thug had barely a chance to face the source of her hollering before he was bequeathed with a double-kick to the bottom region of his spine. Gurgling helplessly, he slumped onto the ground, his back twisted in an agonising position as a pair of stilettos trod unflinchingly over him.   
  
Dylan frowned.   
  
"Damn, Alex. I _so_ need those boots back."   
  
She and Natalie locked arms and twisted over each other to grace two more fallen bikers with a broken nose and a twisted neck respectively.   
  
And then there were two.   
  
The final pair of motorists, however, had a dirty trick up their sleeves, which came in the form of a gasping, writhing woman dressed in a dishevelled pantsuit with a knife at her throat and a gun to her temple.   
  
The Angels regrouped into a common position and turned to face the last of their adversaries, fists balled and legs taut in a pre-emptive stance.   
  
The thugs barely gave them an opportunity to blink. The man holding his weapons against Delilah stepped aside to unveil a semiautomatic in the hands of his partner.   
  
Oh, crap.   
  
Once again, Natalie, Alex and Dylan launched themselves into the air as soon as his fingers hastened towards the trigger, cartwheeling and somersaulting into various directions so as to prevent a successful hit from taking place.   
  
Delilah had almost ceased struggling now; the feeble kick of her legs a warning sign that she was slowly being gagged to death.   
  
This was the cue for all Angels to advance an offensive, and simultaneously, they sprang into combat, legs outstretched, aimed to strike.   
  
All of a sudden, Dylan felt her head snap back excruciatingly as something - or someone - snagged roughly onto her hair. The wrench was almost as instantaneous as the following retraction, and her scalp began to burn with furious protest.   
  
Involuntary tears formed in her eyes that were half-lidded in pain, and partially distracted, she swerved around frantically, her heart ensnared in her pulsating throat, her mind half-hoping and dreading at the same time -   
  
She met nothing but an equally baffled crowd of suits, and yet she could have sworn the air behind her carried with it an incalescence in its path, the slightest hint of cigarette smoke hanging torpidly –   
  
"_DYLAN_!"   
  
Natalie's urgent cry had her senses cannonading into a harsh jolt as her feet carried her to her fellow Angels and the sound of breaking glass yet again, just in time to see the sole-standing thug whisk an unconscious and bleeding Delilah onto his bike and disappear out of the window.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
**July 12th, 9:55 P.M.   
Location: A lone alleyway past the Fending maisonette.   
Status: Cool pursuit**   
  
The motorbike was zipping past a series of dank alleyways with the driver facing the arduous task of issuing control over his steering, and keeping his hostage upright.   
  
Delilah Suezman was flopped over behind him, her thin waist held in a vice-like grip by his right arm while his left concentrated on winding the bike into the misbegotten night.   
  
Upon rounding a sharp corner, he nearly lost his balance as his grasp on the woman behind him slipped, and Delilah came precariously close to rolling off the speeding vehicle.   
  
A string of curses met with the fleeting wind as it pounded wrathfully against his mask in a futile attempt to blind him.   
  
However, those words were also the last he ever uttered as he discovered the pointed end of a rapier emerging from the centre of his chest.   
  
The bike sputtered towards a violent death as its driver collapsed into a gutter, and the woman behind him found herself soaring through an inkwell of sky-   
  
-Until a pair of wiry arms met with the middle of her back and the skin behind her knees, and as her eyes clamoured to unclose the last thing Delilah Suezman remembered seeing was a coat of arrant pinstripes.   
_______________   
_To be continued_


	3. When The Antelope Plays

  
Author's notes   
Thank you, _thank you_ for the fantastic reviews! It has made skipping school to produce fanfiction less guilt-inducing as well as restored my faith in action/adventure writing. You see, my doubts have stemmed from the fact that I know basically nothing about physical combat or vehicles of any sort. Or types of weaponry, for the matter.   
I quote my indignant friends here: "Scarr, you idiot, _a semiautomatic is not a machine gun_!" Now you all know where it went wrong.   
  
I sincerely hope to redeem myself with this chapter, though. It's extra-long and peppered with creepy thin goodness, as well as a bad cliffhanger.   
Enjoy :)   
  


**CHARLIE'S ANGELS:   
THE FALL OF CRONUS   
By Scarr C.**

  


**Chapter Three: When The Antelope Plays**

  
  
**July 13th, 10:22 A.M.   
Location: Wattenbough Creek   
Mission: Ditching arithmetic**   
  
William Taylor Emmett was an ordinary twelve-year-old boy who, like any other twelve-year-old boy, was sporting hair in crude places and honing a rebellious streak. He abhorred school with a healthy passion and was more devoted to the San Francisco Giants than the local church. He also maintained that the art of truancy was a fundamental skill. Apparently, all the cool kids practised it by heart.   
  
Therefore, forgoing a lesson in basis calculus and heading down to the lake for a swim with the boys was an ideal way to spend the day.   
  
Discovering a battered Ford with a decomposing corpse trapped in the passenger seat amongst the reeds, however, was not.   
  
Crouching knee-deep in the mottled water and faced with a pulpous mass of greying flesh, William thought it a very good idea to scream.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
**July 13th, 9:11 A.M.   
Location: The Charles Townsend Agency**   
  
"You mean to say she disappeared into thin air, just like _that_?" Bosley snapped his fingers emphatically, his face a mask of befuddlement.   
  
Natalie looked apologetic at his remark. "I know this sounds unusual, but the abandoned bike was clean as a whistle. There weren't obvious signs of a struggle, and the last we saw, Delilah was semi-conscious. There was little she could do in that state."   
  
Locating the motorcycle was hardly a formidable task. It was parked against one of the alley walls, its tyres soaked with grime but nevertheless in a fine condition. Surrounding track marks indicated that the vehicle had careened mildly out of control, but halogen tests had concluded that there was no pressure on the handlebars or seat that suggested a physical conflict of sorts.   
  
There was also the blatant fact that neither the driver nor his hostage was anyway near the vicinity of the bike when it was found, and this left the Angels with little clues by which to track down their adversary.   
  
Charlie's voice intercepted their discussion from the speaker. "Angels, your foremost priority is to secure the well-being of Miss Suezman and bring her to safety. Mr Fending is far from amused by the outcome of last night's event."   
  
"But none of the valuables were stolen!" Dylan retorted, her temper soaring. "In fact, all the rogues seemed to be after was Delilah Suezman, and she wasn't mentioned by Fending at all! He's clearly responsible for part of this - _he_ was the one withholding information that could have been vital to our cause."   
  
"Quite a bit of information too, I might add." Alex glanced at her friends as Bosley exited the office discreetly to receive a call. "Delilah herself claimed to know Fending on pronounced terms. And she was looking to buy a jewel for a friend – the top bidder who died of a stroke three days ago. His name is Ronald Smith, by the way, and he's a business associate of Miss Suezman herself."   
  
"I have a feeling about this alleged stroke report. Think a visit to the morgue's in order?" Natalie quipped. "Or shall we stick to Fending's suspect and greedy ex-partner Thomas Maulkin?"   
  
"I'm afraid the latter won't be necessary."   
  
The Angels turned to face a sombre-looking Bosley standing by the door of the office, a cell phone dangling haplessly off one hand.   
  
"What's wrong, Bosley?" Charlie broke the apprehensive silence, although a shroud of tension hung darkly in the wake of his query.   
  
"Somebody already got to Maulkin first."   
  
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
**July 14th, 11:03 A.M.   
Location: Scene of wreckage recovery, Wattenbough Creek.   
Mission: CSI reprise**   
  
Officer Merritt hated crowds. Especially when they served to be no more but hindrances in his line of work. Right now, the riverbank was thronged with passer-bys and daunting reporters alike, and the stench emanating from the contaminated waters was more than he could bear.   
  
The corpse was a fetid, swollen entity. Its four limbs were grossly distended and coloured with algae, and the flesh around its neck region was an ill-seeming clump of frayed skin, the epidermal layers rendered to shreds. Brown globules, obviously congealed blood, led a sinuous trail across the larynx and freckled the edges of its mouth.   
  
Merritt was partially grateful that he had foregone breakfast that day.   
  
The boy who had stumbled onto the body squatted a few metres away, huddled in a blanket and shivering even under the adhesive weather. Stupid kid, he mused, poking his nose where he oughtn't have. That'll teach those brats to play hooky-   
  
"Officer Merritt."   
  
It was a lady's voice, succinct and apathetic. He pivoted on a heel and very nearly balked.   
  
For all his testosterone-induced stupor, time could have been running circles about his head. The stinky, cadaver-filled day seemed to take on an auspicious turn as he looked over two unbelievably attractive women in sharp contrasting suits.   
  
Funny how his throat seemed to desiccate like a forgotten well, browbeaten and stung by years of sun.   
  
"A-anything I can do for you, ladies?"   
  
He gestured towards the brunette with the saucy eyes, but a shorter man dressed in terribly unfashionable clothes had chosen this moment to step up between the two females and contaminate his breathing space with a draught of cigarette smoke.   
  
"CSI Ellan Trent." An ID flipped open a little too closely for his eyes to register the fine print and snapped shut as brusquely as it was drawn. "We're here for the case. That the enclosed perimeter?" He jerked a thumb at recovered vehicle.   
  
"Get over there, girls."   
  
"Now wait – just _wait a minute_ here-" Merritt was a trite outraged. Just who the _hell_ did this overweight punk think he was, storming into his cosy coterie of three, just when he was about to crack that multi-purpose Japanese golfer joke-   
  
"-Sir, I'd 'preciate it if you could depart the locality with immediate effect. Translation – we're trying to do our job here."   
  
Merritt took in his aggressor, all five-foot-five of him with the cheap-looking jeans and a pudgy midsection. There was something abstrusely effeminate about the man standing before him, though-   
  
"And your job, _Sir_," The barest hint of scorn was detected here, "Is to keep unnecessary personnel at bay. That might include yourself." With that, the investigation leader – or so the ID claimed- spat out his cancer stick with an obnoxious _flunckkh_ and left the blustering officer to the mercy of the press.   
  
Natalie smiled inwardly as Dylan approached her.   
  
"You _always_ find a bad excuse to spit."   
  
The redhead stuck out her tongue impishly and bent over Alex, her hands supported on the worn denim of her jeans. The other Angel merely nodded, her jaw set in a grim expression.   
  
"It's Maulkin, all right." She looked disparagingly at the results of her portable DNA kit. "Even though his body's in the middle-later stages of decomposition, his facial structure is still recognisable."   
  
Natalie did not reply, seemingly engrossed with the fender. According to past experiences, the various nooks and crannies of a car had proven to be imperative clue mines, and once again her efforts did not go by in vain.   
  
"Lo and behold, girls." The blond Angel retrieved a laboratory pincer from her jacket and proceeded to pluck what looked like tiny brown shells into a clear plastic bag. "Larval pellicles!"   
  
Alex looked forcibly patient. Dylan screwed her nose.   
  
"That's like, fermented bird's dropping, right?"   
  
"Cocoons!" Natalie beamed. "These are pupae belonging to aquatic insects." She peered keenly at the miniscule husks. "Hmm…midges. And caddis flies. Stages of pupation are evidently incomplete, which means that the car had been left in the water for three or four days now."   
  
"This also means that Maulkin was killed before Fending's ball. It's time to rule him out as a potential suspect, don't you think?" Dylan commented wryly.   
  
"I think _Fending_'s the suspect." Alex insisted.   
  
Natalie rose from her crouched position. "Let's take a look at the body first, shall we?"   
  
Thomas Maulkin's corpse was laid in a body bag next to his car. It did not take more than a second glance for Alex Munday and her extensive knowledge in forensic science to determine the cause of his death. Quite obviously, the victim had been stabbed.   
  
"-Right through his throat."   
  
A latex-clad finger probed delicately at the severed flesh. "All that blood makes it look like a messy deed, although contrary to that," She turned around and yanked off her rubber gloves, "The murderer ran him through smoothly and with little fuss. One thrust and it's over in less than half a minute. Apparently our little killer knows what he's doing and exactly _which_ jugular to slice."   
  
Dylan edged towards the deceased's body, a frown betiding her smooth features. The wound on Thomas Maulkin's throat was less than an inch long, and it sported evidence of a blow that was delivered with expert precision, by the means of a long, thin weapon.   
  
An intuitive guess clicked in her mind, and she vaguely wondered why it dismayed her when Alex uttered a similar conclusion.   
  
"Let me guess. Who do we know is in possession of a rapier sword, and wouldn't hesitate to put it to good use for a host of shady incentives? Someone who's well trained in the mercenary deal and ruthlessly good with his work, I might add. Emphasis on _his_ and _rapier sword_."   
  
Once again, the words came spluttering out before Dylan could stop herself.   
  
"You don't think he's dead too?"   
  
"Of course not." Alex snapped, sealing the black bag with an imposing _ziipp_. She noticed the closed expression on her best friend's face and regretted her tone almost immediately.   
  
"What I mean is…I know he was kind of on our side during the face-off with Madison and Seamus, but we're all pretty aware of his moral grounds. Or lack thereof." The last sentence was added as an afterthought.   
  
Dylan maintained a flabbergasted look, shifting her gaze from one friend to the other.   
  
"You mean to tell me that neither one of you assumed he was dead?" She repeated.   
  
Natalie fought back an uneasy glance. "I mean, you guys remember Corwin's Dash for Cash? I sent his racer thirty feet airborne and crashing into the sea, yet he reappeared to take a few swipes at Alex on Knox's island fort."   
  
"Attempted to, more like it." Alex said crisply. "Note also the guy was chained to Vivian Wood when Knox fired a missile directly into their path. Four months later, he shows up at the motorcross to land a knifed lunge at Emmers."   
  
"In the light of these events, a blade to the chest and dropping five storeys off a decrepit building would be considered a cinch, wouldn't it?" Natalie assessed. Dylan made a valiant endeavour to keep from looking optimistic. It was almost as easy as trying to swallow and breathe at the same time. Alex emitted a soft sigh and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.   
  
"Look, Dylan. I'm big on gratitude too, and I'm sure he saved my life as much as yours, but there's plenty of logical reasons why I'm not in a hurry to show up at his doorstep with muffins and a thank-you card."   
  
Natalie giggled. "Actually, I'll reserve those muffins for people on my hit list."   
  
Low blow. Alex allowed a scowl to take over her refined features.   
  
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nat."   
  
"You're just sore because the Thin Man likes Dylan's hair more than yours." Natalie giggled, and Dylan felt a smile tugging the corners of her lips.   
  
Alex swivelled around with a dramatic flourish and stomped towards her Mercedes convertible with nary a word.   
  
Natalie desisted a smirk and followed the dark-haired Angel, with Dylan bringing up the rear and tugging unceremoniously at her padded bottom. They slipped past a harried Officer Merritt, who was fighting a losing battle against an onslaught of jotter books and sharp-edged cameras.   
  
"You're _such_ an outfit repeater." The blond remarked, smiling.   
  
Dylan winked and patted her fake potbelly tenderly. "All's fair, Miss CSI. It's my turn to wear the mullet today. Plus, I'm manlier than thou."   
  
"No, you're not! For your information, I got checked out more than Alex during the Red Star stint."   
  
"Sure you were."   
  
They bickered good-humouredly all the way to Alex's car, where the cross-sounding beep of a horn slipped a little haste in their steps.   
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
**July 14th, 2:40 P.M.   
Location: Dylan's L.A. Pad, Melrose Avenue   
Status: Redolent, and guiltily so.**   
  
Dylan was mentally exhausted and confused, and her stomach lining was being eaten alive by hydrochloric acid.   
  
Alex's car skimmed off a bend in the road just as she shut the front door with a flick of an ankle and sank her weight onto the couch.   
  
Her house was a shambolic exhibition of displaced coffee mugs, magazines and pieces of undone laundry. The weather was equally uncooperative, causing her shirt to stick against her back.   
  
Off came the jeans with an artless kick, followed by the unflattering wig. The refrigerator seemed an unreasonable distance away, so she settled for fishing behind the cushions and pulling out a packet of crisps. The expiration date on the bag was the least of her worries, however. Especially when the visage of a pinched, snarling figure who was very much in the world of the living took precedence over potential food poisoning.   
  
Her legs cooled, and her hunger vaguely mollified, she began to unroll the day's findings, starting with the nasty shock of Maulkin's death, of which the Thin Man had a significant role to play in.   
  
Now, Maulkin was a latent threat to Fending. A good way to rid oneself of a threat was to gut him through the oesophagus and dump his car (corpse included) into a river.   
  
On the other hand, supposing this assumption was true – Why had Fending required the Angels' protection at his exhibition, when he had established an assassination contract with the Thin Man? Was this an overdone form of safeguarding? Not likely.   
  
Dylan stopped chewing and frowned. The crisps _had_ gone very bad.   
  
Groaning, she decided to turn to a source of distraction in the form of her answering machine.   
  
_Beep_. "Madam Mak's Laundry Services calling. This is a message informing you that your clothes are ready for pick up."   
  
She crossed over to the dining table and flipped through the slips of paper stacked untidily on it.   
  
_Beep_. "Hi, er. Listen. It's Matthew here. You know, the guy at the Purple Hazard? Yeah, uh, you hadn't called for a while so I thought I'd call you instead, but you're not at home so uh, er…"   
  
Matthew? Oh, right. The one whom she thought was pretty cute, after a suitably prescribed dosage of alcohol in her bloodstream. Dylan wondered how he had managed to acquire her phone number, especially when she barely remembered dispensing it to him.   
  
This question, however, seemed like a really tasteless joke in relative to the next message that followed.   
  
"Heya, _Helen_."   
  
It was as if a pitcher of ice was delivered right through the centre of her heart. The coordinates of her room lurched at a dangerous angle, but her legs remained stock-still, betrayed by the frozen state of her upper circuit as his voice purled about senses like a devious mist.   
  
"I hope you're holding up just fine, because I'm doing great where I am." She pictured him smiling while saying this, his eyes lathered with frenzy, the back of his fists gnashing against each other with sinuous intent.   
  
"Y'know, when we were in love, you said that you would die for me."   
  
Eight years ago, she reminded herself. Eight fucking years ago, when you were riddled with youth and insolence and the narcotic brand of rock music -   
  
"And now that we've broken up, I'll like you to keep that promise."   
  
When the telephone exploded, it took with it a sizable amount of the house and sent debris ripping through the placid afternoon air.   
  
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
  
**July 14th, 2:52 P.M.   
Location: Crone Enterprises**   
  
In the course of his fifty-eight years of life, he had been told informed by three people that his obsession with quotations and brazen success was veering off a healthy benchmark.   
  
The first person was his mother, and her ashes were populating the rivers of Cairo. Or the Mediterranean. He did not care very much for people who were responsible for his less than jolly childhood.   
  
The second fellow had been his vice-chairperson, whose assemblage of body parts took over four weeks to retrieve.   
  
The third was currently intent on grinding a hole through his office door, what with all that persistent knocking.   
  
"Come in." He was particularly fond of that phrase; it was one of those lines that instilled a sense of dominance in him and made him feel intelligent. Reluctantly, he withdrew his attention from the leaves of his fortune bonsai plant and faced the sallow-skinned, greasy-haired man before him.   
  
"What is it, Doctor Jekt." Question marks were considered the most fatuous of punctuations, since most of the time he perceived the general living population as unworthy of answering his questions. He preferred it when people submitted to them instead.   
  
"He's dead." The doctor spat, patently heedless of his lack of geniality.   
  
A stifled bump was emitted from the desk in front of him, and two blond heads sporting ridiculous vinyl caps with red crosses on them peeked from beneath the polished surface, followed by two girls who represented meretricious copies of each other, both of them bedecked in undersized nurse outfits and gawky platforms.   
  
An imposing stare from the man they were so cheerfully servicing sent them tottering out of the room at once.   
  
Doctor Jekt thrust them a reproachful glare as they exited and whirled back towards the desk, his palms sweating and laid flat against the expanse of oak. "Are you even _listening_ to me, Mr Crone? I said-"   
  
"I heard you perfectly well the first time, _Doctor_." The one addressed as Mr Crone permitted himself an elusive twist of lips. "And I suppose we can't do much about it now, can we? I might even go as far as to call it a… fair exchange."   
  
"But-"   
  
"The problem with you, my dear Doctor, is that you worry far too much." He bobbed his head back and forth to the cadence of an imaginary symphony and swivelled around to face the breadth of windows behind him. Instead of a skyscraper view of the city, however, an enormous portrait of a mountain draped across the glass like a grandiose banner.   
  
Magnus Crone lit a cigar with indolent relish and stretched.   
  
"Now get the hell out of my sight."   
  
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
**July 14th, 3:13 P.M.   
Location: Dylan's pad, or what it left of it.   
Status: Body parts –check. **   
  
Dylan Sanders was running after Desmond Fending.   
  
Apparently it seemed he had dropped his moustache in the car and she was inexplicably desperate to return it back to him, but he had leapt onto a huge motorcycle and scooted away.   
  
Alleys were embroiled into each other, their ditches coming alive with each gripe of her heartbeat. Alex picked delicately at a muffin next to her and – wait a second, where had Alex come from?   
  
She had little time to arrive at a plausible deduction of the sort, because like a bad science fiction movie, Fending had morphed into an arcane, looming statue with eyes like discoloured moons. It also came to her attention that the Thin Man was wearing a bright red helmet that clashed unforgivably with the prudish suit he always donned.   
  
She hastened forward, moustache in hand. "I'll like to look for an orphanage, please." She did not know why she said that, nor had she any idea what she was trying to convey, but her focus was wavering.   
  
The Thin Man looked at her reprovingly and marched into a river, just as the red helmet grew larger and more distinct.   
  
All of a sudden, she was aware of the quantity of dust in her nose and eyes.   
  
A coughing fit ensued, and she jerked to her senses. The red helmet was still visible. Her eyes shifted downwards, and she realised that it was atop the head of a man whom she had never met in her life. A man in his late forties, wearing a blue-grey poncho that spelled _FIRE RESCUE_ in big yellow letters on the front.   
  
She was lying on a mobile stretcher in the middle of the sidewalk that lined what used to be her house, which was now a disarray of melted glass and smouldering plaster. Her hair smelt burnt, but it seemed intact, just like the rest of her body.   
  
"Are you all right, Miss?"   
  
She stared blearily at the fire fighter kneeling beside her.   
  
"Urghh-"   
  
"Good, good." He barely gave her lungs an opportunity to resume their function, tapping her absently on the shoulder as she laboured to rise from her makeshift cot she was placed in.   
  
"You're a real lucky girl, you know. When the blast took place your sofa hit you and knocked you out, but it also served to offer a very effective means of shelter from the flying debris and whatnot. We found you buried under it, miraculously safe from the flames."   
  
"Urg." Dylan could not feel her tongue. There was something very heavy and lifeless sitting under the roof of her mouth instead. It refused to budge.   
  
"Egh." She tried again. The fire fighter shook his head at her and made towards one of the police officers on the scene.   
  
Slowly, excruciatingly, she managed to get into a standing position, and hobbled onto the main road. The district was littered with nearby residents and grave-looking policemen, and the smoke issuing from her demolished house was a caustic reminder of what had happened over the last few hours.   
  
She tested her weight and joints carefully, and much to her relief, she was unscathed save for a few bruises and patches of mildly singed flesh. A near-unrecognisable piece of furniture to her left told her that her sofa wasn't half as fortunate.   
  
Swallowing quickly to retain the moisture in her throat, she walked back to the nearest officer.   
  
"Say, may I borrow your phone for a minute?"   
  
  


___________________________________

  
  
  
  
Natalie was the first to arrive, her blond hair wrenched back in a haphazard ponytail, her face a veil of worry. She pulled her battered friend into a crushing hug, and Dylan instantly felt her tortured ribs giving way.   
  
"Oh my god, Dylan. Are you sure Seamus is behind this?"   
  
Dylan nodded into her friends shoulder, feeling increasingly nauseous with each second.   
  
A silver Mercedes pulled into view, and a petite girl with long raven locks stepped out hurriedly, observing the damage before her with a sympathetic cry.   
  
"Christ, Dylan. Your house!"   
  
Dylan moaned at Alex from the top of Natalie's back. "I _know_, my lava lamp collection. But really, it's Seamus I'm concerned about right now."   
  
The brunette pursed her lips. "I still can't believe he's alive and intent on finishing you off."   
  
"Jumping fifty feet off a ship and walking through fire didn't do him in, either." Natalie quipped. "Seems like we're dealing with a bunch of pseudo-immortals here."   
  
Dylan looked wearier than ever. "I may be stating the obvious here, but it like everything that has happened so far seems to be inter-connected in some way or another. Maybe Seamus set up the bikers at Fending maisonette, maybe Fending paid him to set it up, or maybe the Thin Man's in cahoots with Seamus, I don't know."   
  
Alex tensed at the last hypothesis but spoke not a word. Instead, she appeared to be distracted by something behind her friends. All at once, her eyes flickered back to Dylan and Natalie, a casual, unassuming smile taking over her face.   
  
"Hrn, speak of the devil. On your eight, Dylan."   
  
The other two Angels did an equally commending job of masking their surprise. Dylan nodded slightly, keeping her nonchalant expression intact.   
  
"Which one?"   
  
"The creepy one."   
  
Upon hearing this, she was fleetingly torn between dropping her guard and feeling awkward. It was an undeniable fact that she was less than keen to confront the Thin Man again, primarily because they were meant to be on strict opposing lines, but he had to mess up the equation and defy all laws of rationality by kissing her.   
  
It was an inadvertent motion, the callous grip of his fingers on her shoulders, the invasion of casual proximity by means of his teeth clinking against her own. To worsen matters, she had reciprocated the odd favour and lost him a small tuff of black hair.   
  
And now he was back in his own world, a world of eclipsing vices and manufactured shadows, where morals were established upon dirty gold and smiles bounced off the flight of a weapon. A world that she and her friends fought so hard to eliminate.   
  
She adjusted her weight firmly, her posture vigilant and wakeful. Damn if her personal conflicts ever stood in the way of getting a job done again.   
  
The Angels exchanged a conspiratorial glance, and Natalie decided to test the waters.   
  
"Right. We try to minimise the distance from him as inconspicuously as possible, okay."   
  
She tapped her right foot and took an indifferent step backward.   
  
The Thin Man bolted.   
  
"_Shit_!"   
  
It came as a unanimous assessment of the situation, and all three Angles could no longer be bothered about subtlety as they sprinted after him, ignoring the panicked calls of the policemen behind them.   
  
The Thin Man was a skilled escapist, and the Angels were treated to a series of hurtling obstacles as he sought to broaden the distance between them. They dashed past a row of houses and nearly skidded off track as he made a sharp left, his gait purposeful and nimble. Leaping over fences and private hedges began to occupy the general pattern of their movements as they followed him through a sequence of back lawns.   
  
Dylan could hardly feel her legs – the flood of adrenaline had butchered her senses, and coupled with the injuries from the explosion she was reduced to the back of the game, with Natalie and Alex far ahead of her and the Thin Man virtually out of sight. The chase had now resembled a twisted version of Pac-man, what with their target meandering effortlessly around corners and the rest of them struggling to catch up.   
  
Another turn, this time to the right, and by the time Dylan had repeated those footsteps, Natalie and Alex had given up on running, their bodies heaving uncontrollably from the strenuous pursuit.   
  
"You've-lost -him?" She found it difficult to speak, the back of her neck slick with perspiration. A hand was unwittingly administered to her ailing side, and as she took a quick gander below she realised that she was wearing only one shoe.   
  
"Dead end." Alex was curt, simple frustration lining the contours of her face.   
  
Sure enough, the turn had ended abruptly in a cramped space between two three-storey buildings. Countless drapes of gigantic linen hung in a dishevelled manner from clipping boards overhead, obfuscating their view.   
  
"He has got to be hiding in here somewhere." Natalie ventured further into the desolate space, her eyes raking the ground for the barest hint of a silhouette. "The footsteps had stopped the moment we turned into the corner."   
  
She approached the nearest sheet with impeccable stealth, as if picking up on a flash of movement right behind it. With a determined nod and the other two Angels poised in readied stances behind her, she grabbed hold of the material and yanked as hard as she could.   
  
It slid off the laundry pegs with a rough, flapping sound-   
  
-And there was nobody there.   
  
Natalie shot a disconcerted look at Alex. "I could have _sworn_ I felt someone standing-"   
  
Prior to her words, Dylan was already considering the second sheet that divided her and possibly their target. Furtiveness was an imperative, and despite the sustained throb of her muscles, she inched towards it with the bearing of a panther.   
  
What happened next occurred too swiftly and devastatingly for any of them to react.   
  
A sword penetrated the flimsy cloth, aided by the element of surprise.   
  
Dylan caught the sadistic glimmer of its edge a split second before it bore through her flesh.   
  
The blade retracted as promptly as it had emerged, and a rattled gasp was sounded, one that she identified as her own. The sheet cascaded with ironic grace; a torturous plummet of life's curtains that revealed a pair of eyes so deep-set and wrought with the very same steel that had just passed through the centre of her body.   
  
But when those eyes clashed with hers, wide and alarmed and cradled with impending tears, the adamantine shattered, and his lips parted in a horrified circle to match her own.   
  
Natalie and Alex were screaming behind her, but their voices were watery and hustled away by the debacle of emotions that collided and dissipated within her.   
  
She waited for her life to bluster past her in a cinematic sequence, frame after passive frame; but her eyes were exposed to a thick canopy of darkness before she even hit the ground.   
  
_______________   
_To be continued_


End file.
